Après un rêve
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: Implied Harry/Severus. The ballroom is not where Severus Snape belongs, and yet here he is, standing by the wall like a stone fixture, holding a glass of sparkling wine he has no desire to drink.


Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

**Après un rêve**

The great hall where the yearly celebration took place was unlike anything Severus Snape had seen before. In the middle of the room, a giant of an ash tree grew out of the ground, its branches extending beyond the entire length of the hall, forming an umbrella of green foliage against the Prussian blue sky. Round paper lanterns floated amongst the labyrinth of branches like bubbles, casting a soft glow over elegantly dressed guests and masked servants.

Talk and laughter and weeping accompanied the minuet performed by an invisible orchestra. Couples were waltzing across the dance floor like pairs of butterflies, while guests on the sideline renewed old friendships and formed new ones. Servants in black capes glided around the hall like crows, offering hors d'œuvre and sparkling wine to the guests. In the tenderness of the night, smiles and tears were radiant as though from a long-forgotten dream, and in a way, it was a dream.

Wearing his customary black and a perpetual scowl, Severus felt uncomfortable in the midst of merrymaking and reunion and what he regarded as foolish sentiments. The ballroom was not where he belonged, and yet here he was, standing by the white-panelled wall like a stone fixture, holding a glass of sparkling wine he had no desire to drink. It was the first time he received an invitation, and in spite of his annoyance, the will of the host could not be defied.

After dismissing a servant who offered him a tray full of edible white flowers, Severus scanned the crowd in search of familiar faces. Nevertheless, he recognised no one; faces were indistinct from one another, figures melting into blurry shadows. There was a strange sweetness in the air, luring him into a state of stupor. He thought he recognised the scent, yet as soon as the word took shape in his mind, a bell chime disrupted his thoughts, and the word sank into the muddle that was his memory.

With a sigh he put down his glass and strolled along the outer edge of the dance floor. The notion that he was breathing in unknown substance did not disturb him as much as it ought to. When he sidestepped a drunkard, he bumped into a young lady, who almost fell in a heap of black ruffles. Mumbling an apology, he was about to go on his way when she grabbed his arm, forcing him to meet her gaze. A pair of green eyes peered into his very soul and unlocked snapshots of another lifetime. Wary of her intention, he pulled his arm away and took a closer look at her.

A slender creature with an ungainly bearing, she wore a modern version of a Victorian dress, the shimmering black accenting her pale skin and short dark hair. Wrapped around her neck and the lower half of her face was a black silk scarf, a peculiarity that none of the guests seemed to take issue of. He had an inkling that he knew her, a name dangling at the tip of his tongue before slipping away into oblivion.

When the orchestra struck up the first note of a ballad, the young lady extended her hand to him: an invitation to a dance. Unable to decipher her ulterior motive, he squinted at her for a moment; unfazed and determined, she returned the gaze. In the end, he yielded to her stubbornness with some reluctance and took her hand, which was a touch colder than his.

Joining other couples on the dance floor, he held his mysterious partner in his arm and guided her along. Her earlier bravado all but vanished, she kept staring at the ground, as though unused to dancing in heeled boots, or as though she only knew half of the steps. In exasperation he slowed down so that she could keep up. When she looked up at him, there was a glint of amusement in her eyes, though it might have been a trick of the light overhead.

In the midst of lovers and friends who were oblivious to everything but the music, Severus and the young lady paced about like a pair of school children learning how to dance.

All too soon, the final note of the song faded into the night. Letting go of his partner, he bowed to the young lady, who curtsied with little grace. Were he to reach out for her scarf, he could unveil her identity and solve the mystery, but something stayed his hand. In the everlasting hall where butterflies twirled around in a never-ending dance, it would not do to break the spell.

A moment later, the young lady kissed Severus' cheek, her silk scarf brushing against his skin, her warm breath bringing him much nostalgia. Bewildered by her action and by the peculiar feeling it summoned forth, he looked into her eyes, bright orbs of the same hue as an evergreen tree beneath the sun. Once upon a time, those eyes had surely gazed at him as though gazing upon someone at once hateful and beloved.

Of its own accord his hand reached out and touched the shadow beneath her eye. The light in her eyes flickered; in the next beat, she slipped her arms around him, her body trembling like a child left in the cold. In a low, husky voice liken to a boy's, she whispered something into his ear, a hint to a riddle he could not make sense of. _I'm not her, but thank you for loving her._

With that she dropped her arms and took three steps back, her visage wistful but resolute. It was time to say goodbye; he knew he would never see her again, for she could not live in this golden dream of warmth and solace. At last, he understood why he was invited to the ball and who the young lady was.

Severus was about to utter a name when he caught himself. Why not let the magic last for a little while longer, he thought. Slowly he removed the young lady's scarf and studied her face, a face that reminded him of a certain foolish child. A flash of surprise appeared on her visage before she pressed her lips together in obstinate silence. She, no, _he _was always terrible at mastering his emotions in front of him, Severus remembered.

After wrapping the scarf around her neck, he called a servant over and took a flower from the silver tray: a white lily drenched in morning dew. No other flower would do, for the namesake was the thread that once bound them together. Without a word the young lady accepted the flower, but the hard look she gave him was more telling than mere words. In the end, she let out a shaky breath and nodded.

No tears or smile would accompany him on his way; such was the ending he desired and deserved. After caressing her cheek one more time, he turned on his heel and walked towards the tree, his back straight and his gaze fixed upon the path ahead of him.

This time next year, the evergreen hall would once more be filled with laughter and tears, but he would not be attending the ball ever again.

With dry eye the young lady watched the man vanish into the world of shadows, knowing there was no more reason for her to stay. Wading through the crowd, she reached the oak double door at the other end of the hall, a lonely spot no one wished to linger for too long. The sound of the revelry was faint, and the light was as dim as an empty stage after the swansong had been sung. She took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped into the wintry night.

With a murmur the magic coiling around her fell away. In place of the young lady, a dark-haired, bespectacled young man in a black coat stood in the snow-covered clearing, a black scarf around his neck and a white flower in his hand. The night was cold, colder than he had imagined. Shivering, he wheeled around and found no magnificent mansion before him. Instead, a tall ash tree stretched its bare limbs towards the starlit sky: the dream had come to an end.

Green eyes downcast, he threw the lily onto the ground, a tribute to the man he at once resented and respected, loathed and loved. Without casting another glance at the tree, he turned around and went on his way. Even as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, tears slid down his cheeks and disappeared into the fold of his scarf, leaving a trail of wetness that soon dried in the crisp winter air.

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: A little diversion from my usual Draco/Harry-centric stories. The title of the fic, _Après un rêve_, comes from the title of a vocal piece composed by Gabriel Fauré. On a lighter note, Harry's dress is a Gothic-style dress, and I'm sure he's not the one who picked the dress. Thank you for reading.


End file.
